Роберт Уоррен - All the king's men

But the Boss didn't say it. He didn't say anything. He just moved slowly over to stand in front of Jimmy. Then, very deliberately, he reached out and laid his right hand on Jimmy's shoulder. He didn't pat the shoulder. He jus laid it there, the way some men can do to gentle a nervous horse.

He wasn't looking at Jimmy now, but swept his glance around over all the others. "Boys," he said, "I just came down to tell you I know you did your best."

He stood there, with his hand still lying on Jimmy's shoulder, and let that sink in. Jimmy began to cry.

Then he said, "And I know you will do your best. For I know the stuff you got in you."

He waited again. Then he took his hand off Jimmy's shoulder, and turned slowly and moved toward the door. There he paused, and again swept his glance over the room. "I want to tell you I won't forget you," he said, and walked out of the door.

Jimmy was really crying now.

I followed the Boss back outside, where the band was now playing some brassy march.

When the second half opened up, the boys came out for blood. They made a touchdown early in the third quarter, and kick the point. The Boss felt pretty good, in a grim way, about that. In the fourth quarter Georgia drove down to the danger zone, was held, then kicked a field goal. That was the way it ended, ten to seven.

But we still had a shot at the Conference. If we took everything else in the season. The next Saturday Tom Stark was back out. He was out because the Boss had put the heat on Billie Martin. That was why, all right, for the Boss told me so himself.

"How did Martin take it?" I asked.

"He didn't, the Boss said. "I crammed it down his throat."

I didn't say anything to that, and didn't even know I was looking anything. But the Boss thrust his head at me and said, "Now look here, I wasn't going to let him throw it away. We got a chance for the Conference, and the bastard would throw it away."

I still didn't say anything.

"It's not Tom, it's the championship, by God," he said. "It's not Tom. If it weren't anything but Tom, I wouldn't say a word. And if he breaks training again, I'll pound his head on the floor. I'll beat him with my own hands. I swear it."

"He's a pretty good-sized boy," I remarked.

He swore again he would do it.

So the next Saturday Tom Stark was back out, and he carried the ball, and he was a cross between a ballerina and a locomotive, and the stands cheered, Yea, Tom, Tom, Tom, for he was their darling, and the score was twenty to nothing, and State had the sights back on the championship. There were two more games. There was an easy one with Tech, and then the Thanksgiving pay-off.

Tech was easy. In the third quarter, when State already had a lead, the coach sent Tom in just to give him a canter. Tom put on a little show for the stands. It was casual and beautiful and insolent. There was nothing to it, the way he did his stuff, it looked so easy. But once after he had knifed through for seven yards and had been nailed by the secondary, he didn't get up right away.

"Just got the breath knocked out," the Boss said.

And Tiny Duffy, who was with us in the Governor's box, said, "Sure, but it won't faze Tom."

"Hell, no," the Boss agreed.

But Tom didn't get up at all. They picked him up and carried him to the field house.

"They sure knocked it out of him," the Boss said, as though he were commenting on the weather. Then, "Look, they're putting in Axton. Axton's pretty good. Give him another season."

"He's good, but he ain't Tom Stark. That Tom Stark is my boy," Duffy proclaimed.

"They'll pass now, I bet," the Boss said judicially, but all the time he was sneaking a look at the procession making for the field house.

"Axton for Stark," the loud-speaker up above the stands bellowed, and the cheerleader called for the stuff for Stark. They gave Tom his cheer, and the leader and the assistant leaders cart-wheeled and cavorted and flung up their megaphones.

The ball went back into play. It was a pass, just as the Boss had predicted. Nine yards, and first down. "First Down on Tech's twenty-four-yard line," the loud-speaker announced. Then added, "Tom Stark, who was stunned on the previous play, shows signs of regaining consciousness."

"Stunned, huh?" Tiny Duffy echoed. Then he slapped the Boss on the shoulder (he loved to slap the Boss on the shoulder in public to show what buddies they were), and said, "They can't stun our old Tom, huh?"

The Boss's face darkened for a moment, but he said nothing.

"Not for long," Tiny asseverated. "That boy, he is too tough for 'em."

"He's tough," the Boss agreed. Then he gave his attention with the greatest devotion to the game.

The game was dull, but the duller it got, the more devoutly the Boss followed every play, and the more anxious he was to cheer. State ground out the touchdowns like a butcher's machine making hamburger. There was about as much sporting chance in the process as in betting n whether or not water runs downhill. But the Boss cheered every time we made three yards. He had just cheered a pas which had put State on the six-yard line, when a fellow appeared in front of out box and took of his hat, and said, "Governor Stark–Governor Stark."

"Yeah? the Boss asked.

"The doc–over at the field house–he says can you come over a minute?" the man said.

"Thanks," the Boss said, "you tell him I'll be over in a minute. Soon as I see the boys run this one over." And he put his attention on the game.

"Hell," Tiny began, "I know it ain't nothing. Not old Tom, he–"

"Shut up," the Boss commanded, "can't you see I'm watching the game!"

And when the touchdown had been driven over and the point had been kicked, the Boss turned and said to me, "It's getting on to quitting time here. You let Sugar-Boy drive you to the office and wait for me there. I want to see you and Swinton, if you can get him. I'll take a cab down. Probably beat you there." And he vaulted over the railing to the green, and went toward the field house. But he stopped by the bench for a moment to kid the boys. Then with his hat jammed down over the heavy, outthrust head, he went on toward the field house.

The rest of us in the box didn't wait for the last whistle. We worked out before the rush started, and headed for town. Duffy got off at the Athletic Club, where he kept his wind condition by blowing the froth off beer and bending over pool tables, and I went on to the Capitol.

I could tell even before I put my key to the lock that there wasn't any light in the big reception room. The girls had shut up shop and gone home for Saturday afternoon, off to their movies and bridge games and dates and steaks on sizzling platters at Ye Olde Wagon Wheel roadhouse or dancing at the Dream of Paris where the lights were blue and the saxophone made a sound like the slow, sweet regurgitation of sorghum molasses, off to all the chatter and jabber and giggles and whispers and gasps, off to all the things called having a good time.

For a moment, as I stood there in the big darkened room in the unaccustomed stillness of the place, a kind of sneer flickered along the edge of my mind as I though of all the particular good times they would be having in (Ye Olde Wagon Wheel, Dream of Paris, Capitol City Movie Palace, parked cars, darkened vestibules), the people the would be having the good time with (the college boys with his cocksureness and scarcely concealed air of being on a slumming expedition, the drug clerk with nine hundred dollars saved up in the bank and his hope of buying into the business next year and his notion of getting him a little woman and settling down, the middle-aged sport with hair plastered thinly over the big skull veined like agate and big, damp, brutally manicured hands the color of uncooked pork fat and an odor of bay rum and peppermint chewing gum).